MIA
by FoolofaTook17
Summary: Dwight stares at the camera, holding up a neon green piece of computer paper with the words MISSING written across the top in black Sharpie. “Little Dwight has, as many in the office know, gone missing...
1. Chapter 1

It's gone missing. 

Where is it? Nobody knows. The last time and place it was seen? On Dwight's desk, nestled in among his other rare collectibles just ripe for the bobbling. Dwight gets up to go replenish his "bottomless" coffee cup, and bada-bing! It's gone.

Could it have been ripped apart by the vicious teeth of the paper shredder? No, it's too fat for that.

Forced down the toilet pipes, perhaps. There would've been a flood, maybe even an explosion. Wow.

Maybe it's been confined to the freezer, locked in an icy abyss filled with unwelcoming sandwiches, Cokes, and Vitamin Waters.

**Dwight stares at the camera, holding up a neon green piece of computer paper with the words MISSING written across the top in bold, black Sharpie. "Little Dwight has, as many in the office know, gone missing," Dwight tells us sternly. "He…he's all alone out there, in this jungle of carnivorous paper salesmen!" He straightens his tie and continues. "I'm putting these posters up all over the office, and if you see him, I'll expect you bring him back safe and sound." As his speech concludes, a small sob escapes him, and he buries his head in his hands.**

"Wow…there's a reward for this," Kevin drones, pointing at one of the flyers Dwight printed up.

"Twenty-five bucks, and Dwight'll buy you all your lunches for the next three months," Jim reads, raising his eyebrows. "What a treat."

"You'll probably be the one getting the reward, Halpert," Dwight accuses stiffly. He jabs at finger at Jim, saying, "You're the one who kidnapped him!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, kidnapped him? Dwight, it's a bobblehead!"

"Did you kidnap him, Jim?" Meredith asks.

"No, Meredith, I didn't," Jim answers. "What good would a bobblehead replica of Dwight do me?"

"It does Dwight an awful lot of good," Angela mutters.

"Because it's of Dwight, Angela!" Jim insists. Pam watches Jim explain himself from her desk, grinning a little.

**"I really love watching Jim talk his way out of things," Pam tells the camera. "He doesn't do it a lot, but when he does…it's pretty funny." **

Attracted by the chaos beginning to form in his domain, Michael saunters out of his office casually.

"What's goin' on?" he asks. "What'd I miss?"

"Michael!" Dwight cries, as if a savior has been sent into the room. "Jim stole my bobblehead!" He points his finger at Jim again. Jim lifts his hands up and shakes his head.

"Search my desk," he invites. "I'll guarantee you, it's not there."

Michael turns to the camera and smiles a little. "Whh-ell, Jim just invited us to take a little tour through his desk!" He laughs clapping Stanley on the back. Stanley looks up at him irritably. "Let's do it!"

Michael walks to Jim's desk, followed by a small herd of office-goers, including Dwight, Phyllis, Angela, and Kevin. Jim sneaks past them and goes to talk to Pam.

"I can't even believe this," Jim mutters, leaning on his elbows. "I mean, do you know where his bobblehead is?"

Pam shakes her head, trying to suppress her laughter. "I'll bet Dwight just misplaced it," she guesses. She reaches into her desk, pulls out something, and hands it to Jim. "Lollipop'll make you feel better," she offers. Grinning, he takes it.

Michael goes up to Jim and Pam, rubbing his hands together. "Well, there's no bobblehead in there," he says, his voice laced with that type of cheer he always seems to possess. Jim tilts his head past Michael and can see Dwight sifting frantically through his drawers, occasionally throwing something out, determined that it had to be somewhere in the desk.

"What are you gonna do now?" Toby asks softly.

"Well, Toby, I'll tell you," Michael answers. "We're...going on a rescue mission!"

**Ryan stares at the camera with a face that screams that he's used to this stuff, but is still stunned at whatever new antics Michael comes up with. "Yeah," he says, glancing at his shoes. "We're off to rescue Dwight's bobblehead."**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer that I forgot to put in the first chapter:** I don't own anything from The Office except a calendar, season DVDs, and a talking keychain. :-)

**Bookybookbook:** Thanks for the review! I'd basically be awful at writing a JAM story, so I decided to try something else. :-)

* * *

In a matter of about ten minutes, Michael has assembled a search party comprised of everyone in the office, whether they came voluntarily or not.

They wouldn't have been able to have a lunch break if they didn't partake in the search.

"Dwight, where's the last time you've seen this bobblehead of yours?" Michael asks.

"10:33 this morning," Dwight answers stiffly. "I went up to go get some more coffee, and when I got back, he was…gone!" His voice cracks a little, and Angela discreetly laces her fingers in between his. Karen glances at them and Angela's fingers retreat. Once she turns her attention back to the group, Angela's fingers are back.

**"Dwight has very cold hands," she informs us.**

Stanley yawns. Michael points at him and yelps, "There'll be no yawning on this mission, mister! Either you're in or you're out!"

"I'm out," Stanley mutters, retreating to his desk. Michael scurries in front of him and sits on his chair.

"Na-uh uh uh," he chides. "No one leaves until this mystery is unmystery-fied! Now, we'll just trust that you're sorry, and let's move on, shall we?"

"Don't you mean 'unmystified'?" Phyllis asks.

"That's not a word!"

"But it sounds better than 'unmystery-fied'," Kelly points out. Michael turns to the camera and smiles rather awkwardly.

**"That is a genuine, 100 real word," he insists. "My English teacher taught me that word. If you go get a dictionary and look up that word, you'll see it, and in little subtitles, it'll say 'Word generously donated by Michael Scott of Dunder Mifflin Paper Products.' You bet it will."**

Michael pulls a miner's helmet out of his desk drawer and hands it to Pam. "Pam, we need someone to go check under all the desks and everywhere where something could be hiding," he tells her.

"Why do I have to do it?" she asks.

"Because you're the smallest," he explains, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

Angela walks to them nonchalantly and takes the helmet out of Michael's hand. "I'll do it," she says. "I'm smaller than Pam, anyway."

**"Angela seems pretty worried about this Dwight bobblehead, you know? I mean, I didn't think she of all people would be worried about it at all, but hey, what're you gonna do? Maybe she's just trying to turn over a new leaf. I don't think it's working. If it was working, she would've had to take down that creepy baby poster by her desk, and she should put her hair up or something, make it look more pretty, y'know? There could be lots of things she could do, but if she doesn't want to and wants to stay all mouse-looking or whatever, that's fine. It'd be a major challenge for her to change her no-fun attitude thing. I mean, who hates fun?…Angela, I guess," Kelly explains breathlessly to the camera. Her mini-speech is complete with hand motions.**

After about five minutes that were filled with about 10 of suspense, Angela resurfaces. She stands up and straightens her skirt, her stern eyes boring holes into everyone around her.

"I found this," she reports, thrusting it at Michael. Michael takes the crumpled piece of paper and opens it.

"It's obvious what you guys are all looking for. A miniature bobblehead of Dwight, perhaps? Yeah, I'll bet that's it. Do you know where it is? Yeah, I'll bet you don't. Well, just to let you know, Little Dwight is fine. For now. But by the end of the day, if you can't find him…then…well, he's ours," Michael reads aloud, "for-evah." The word "forever" he enunciates like Squints did in The Sandlot.

"For…evah," Dwight parrots, crestfallen. Suddenly, he straightens up and puts his hands on his hips. "Well, what're we waiting for? Let's get this tested! Let's do something! We only have until the end of the day, people! Come on, move it, move it, move it!" He ushers them into the conference room, gives the camera a look, and shuts the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimage: I don't own _The Office_, or any office for that matter. It'd be pretty cool if I did, but sadly, I'm officeless.

* * *

"**I went out to the county sheriff's office and got this piece of paper tested for fingerprints and/or DNA," Dwight informs the camera, thrusting the ransom note right in the lens. "They wore gloves when they wrote it. As anyone would know, gloves do not show DNA or fingerprints.**

**"I wish they did."**

"There's nowhere else we can look," Jim mutters, his elbows leaning on his desk with his chin cupped in his hands.

"I think I'm gonna die of starvation," Stanley says, walking over to the refrigerator in the break room. Michael gasps and runs as fast as he can, just barely managing to make his body spread-eagle out in front of the fridge door.

"You're not eating anything, Stanley!" he snaps.

"But this is technically our lunch break," Toby points out softly. "I mean, Michael, if you don't let Stanley eat his lunch, then—"

"Then what, Toby? You gonna report me to H.R.? Yeah? Well, you don't even deserve to be in on this expedition, sir! Why don't…why don't you go take a seat?"

Toby stands there, a little stunned.

"**I know I probably looked kinda upset or stunned or whatever when Michael freaked out on me," Toby confesses, "but I'm pretty used to it, actually. I just didn't get enough sleep last night. **_**Lost **_**had its season finale, which ended at eleven, and then my friend Zack called. I mean, we had to discuss this thing." He pauses, his eyes darting around. "I, uh, don't tell Dwight I watch **_**Lost**_**, okay?"**

**The camera nods.**

**"Thanks."**

"I'll take Toby's spot if he doesn't want to sit down," Stanley volunteers, strolling briskly towards Toby's desk. He collapses into the chair with a satisfied sigh. Everyone stares at him for a few seconds. He looks up.

"Go along," he tells them, flicking his hand nonchalantly. "I'll hold down the fort here."

Michael shakes his head, clearly disappointed. "Stanley, you'll never be a valued member of the Dunder Mifflin team with that attitude," he scolds. "C'mon, everyone. We're going down to the warehouse to try and get this figured out."

As the troupe begins their journey down to meet with the warehouse guys (and girl), Jim passes and gives Stanley a subtle high-five. Pam notices and grins slightly.

"**Stanley," Jim muses. "Stanley can get out of anything. It's really pretty awesome."**

"**There's no Dunder Mifflin team for me to not be a valued member of," Stanley tells us. "I don't see any uniforms on anyone."**

"**He said that?" Jim asks of Stanley's comment. He chuckles a little. "That's true. Oh, God. This is gonna be good."**

"Warehouse guys!" Michael yells, clapping his hands together eagerly. "We've got a bit of an emergency going on upstairs…"

"What, Mike, did somebody get hurt?" Darryl asks, handing the box he was carrying to Roy.

"We've got a missing person situation," Michael announces.

Jim rolls his eyes at Pam. Roy catches this bit of eye contact and feels threatened, as usual. He tosses Jim a stone-cold look. Jim gets the hint, but while biting the inside of his cheek, he manages to slip in a small grin.

"Who's missing, Michael?" Roy asks, putting an arm around Pam's shoulders. He's careful to nudge Jim out of the way, a little harder than necessary. "Oh, sorry about that, Halpert. Were you standin' here?"

Jim puts his hands up. "No," he answers. "Fine. I'm fine right here. Sure."

"**Yeah…" Jim's voice trails off as his eyes avert from the camera. "Not too fine right there."**

"Dwight is missing," Michael says loudly, his hands cupped around his mouth to make some extra annunciation.

"Dwight's right there, Michael," Kevin points out.

Michael turns to Kevin. "I know that, Kevin," he answers.

"Well then why'd you say he was missing?"

"I didn't say—"

"Uh, I think you did say that, Michael," Pam interrupts, holding up her index finger.

"Pam's the secretary, Michael; you've gotta believe her," Oscar tells him.

"Okay, okay, okay! Y'know what? _Fine! Little _Dwight is missing!"

Dwight holds out one of his homemade posters, circulates it around the room for about thirty seconds, then smacks it up on the wall.

"**Pre-taped missing posters," Jim notices. He stands up and moves so close to the camera that all you can see is his face. "Better call **_**Sixty Minutes **_**or **_**48 Hours**_**; this is the real deal."**

* * *

It definitely took me forever to update this. I apologize to anybody who was reading this and who wanted to know anything else about if, if anyone did. I send you a cyber smiley named Bill : ) and hopefully he will make things okay!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaim, Allison!: I don't own The Office, or anything regarding The Office. I do, however, own a stapler. That kinda has to do with The Office, right? Oh, and I don't own/have anything to do with YouTube, either.

**CSIMel: **thanks for the review:-)

* * *

"Mike, are you saying that _we _stole Dwight's…Dwight?" Darryl wants to know.

"I'm not saying that," Michael answers, chuckling a little nervously and casting a concerned look at the camera. "Ha, I, I'm not saying that at all. I just, you know, wanted you guys to keep a lookout for the little guy, that's all.

"I mean, look at Dwight's face!" Dwight is standing right next to Michael, nearly on top of him, so when Michael turns to point at him, he pokes him in the eye.

Dwight lets out a small yelp and doubles over, clutching his eye, or trying as hard as he could to clutch it; eyes are a pretty hard body part to clutch.

Michael stares at him for a second, and waits for Dwight to let out a small sob. "Y'see?" he asks desperately. "Y'see how depressed he is? Just…just keep an eye out, okay?"

"There's a reward," Jim pitches in.

Roy turns to him. "What's the reward, Halpert?"

Jim turns to him. "Twenty-five bucks."

"And I'll buy you your lunch for three months!" Dwight adds, taking his hand away from his eye, which is rapidly swelling and bloodshot. The majority of people in the room wince when they make eye contact with him.

"Aw, Dwight, put that away!" Michael scolds, taking Dwight's wrist and maneuvering his hand to cover his eye again. "Nobody wants to see that!"

"**Was it just me, or did Dwight seem to enjoy Michael's hand on his wrist?" Jim asks mischieviously, rubbing his chin with his thumb and index finger. He pauses. "Wait…there's Angela. Yeah. Never mind."**

* * *

It's nearly five o'clock, and no one has found Little Dwight yet. Dwight begins to get even more panicky than he already was, and Kelly suggests that he take a nap.

"**A nap," Ryan repeats blandly. "Because, you know, everyone who's missing a bobblehead takes a nap. Definitely." He stares at the camera for a few seconds. "A nap."**

_

* * *

_

_Dwight walks hesitantly through the office, clutching a flashlight in one hand. A makeshift eye patch made of paper and a bunch of rubber bands broken and tied together is strapped across his poked eye, and he stumbles a bit through the darkness. He shines the light on the clock, which reads 9:30. In the P.M. _

_"I know it's not 9:30, Jim," he says sternly. "It's more than a piece of cake to change the clocks around. I should know; I've done it before." _

_No response. _

_"Michael?" he calls out hesitantly. "Michael, I hope you give Jim a pretty big demotion for this! Demote him to below Assistant Regional Manager!"_

_Still no response._

_Dwight holds one hand out, patting it along the wall as he walks, trying to feel his way around the dark office. The flashlight helps a little bit, but a volunteer sheriff on the weekends knows that batteries don't last long, especially when they weren't put in the fridge first._

_All of a sudden, Dwight feels his foot fall into something. He gasps as his knees buckle, but he quickly regains his composure. Straightening his tie, he points the flashlight down and sees that his foot is in Kevin's electric footbath that he gave himself during the Yankee Swap Christmas party last year. _

_"Damn it, Kevin," he mutters. "Didn't you bring this home? Where has it been this whole time?"_

_There's a rustle of papers, and Dwight quickly turns the flashlight toward the noise. Inside the yellow orb of light is Little Dwight, a broken rubber band tied around his neck in the style of a noose, with more rubber bands attached, leaving the bobblehead hanging helplessly from the top of that filing cabinet with Homer Simpson hanging out on top of it. _

_"NO!"_

Jim peeks over at Dwight, who's sitting slumped over his desk, his head rolling around as much as it can without being decapitated, muttering, "No, no, no!"

Jim casts one of his signature looks at the camera, then pokes Dwight with a pencil.

"No!" Dwight yells, his head shooting up immediately.

"Little nightmare, there, Dwight?" Jim asks.

Dwight stares angrily at him. "No," he answers, straightening his tie, just like he did in the dream. "Not at all. A good Assistant Regional Manager does _not _fall asleep on the job."

Angela casts a concerned look Dwight's way.

"**He fell asleep on the job," Jim tells the camera simply. **

"**Ohmigod, did you hear Dwight?" Kelly asks us, grinning a little. "I've never heard that before! Nobody's fallen asleep in the office. Well, people have. Creed does it almost daily, but I mean, no one's actually had a **_**dream **_**like that!" **

"**Don't tell me you wouldn't have yelled, too," Dwight insists to the cameraman. "What if **_**your **_**bobblehead had been hanged?" He waits for a response. "Well, just imagine that you **_**did **_**have one, okay?"**

"**I got that all on video on my phone," Kevin confides in us, grinning. "I'm gonna post it on YouTube later."**


	5. Chapter 5

**MirrorKate: **thanks for the review! Glad you liked it )

¡Disclaim!: I don't own anyone or anything that has been on NBC during the 8:30 time slot on Thursday nights.

* * *

"Hey, Dwight," Jim says, spinning around in his swivel chair. 

"What, Jim," Dwight answers in a monotone. Jim flashes the camera a look that seemed a tiny, teeny tiny bit concerned with the fact that Dwight neglected to make his voice use the punctuation needed in the sentence.

That's probably the most awkward-sounding sentence you've ever read in your life.

"I found this on Creed's desk," he tells Dwight, handing him a small white business card. At least, he tries to hand it to him; he ends up sliding it across their two desks because Dwight refuses to take it from him.

"Question. How would anything Creed has help me, Halpert?"

Jim shrugs. "Read it. It just sounded like it might be useful, I guess."

He glances over at Pam, who stares at him and mouths, "What is it?"

Jim grabs a nearby Sharpie and scribbles a few words onto a piece of nearby computer paper. He looks it over, then holds it near the bottom of his chair. There, it'll be readable for Pam, but Dwight won't be able to see it.

She still had to squint, but Pam was finally able to make out, "I'll tell you later."

"**I have no idea why Jim held the paper like that," Pam tells the camera, rolling her eyes slightly. "I mean, if Dwight saw it, why would he get mad over it?" She pauses and stares intently at the camera, as if it's telling her something. "Oh, yeah," she decides. "It **_**is **_**Dwight, after all."**

**Dwight stares sternly into the camera, holding the card Jim gave him as if he was a CIA agent showing identification. "Boppin' Bob's Bobblehead Emporium," Dwight reads. "Do you need a bobblehead fixed? Do you only need one more until your Star Trek collection is complete? Or are you simply a first-time buyer with a slight interest in the world of bobbleheads? Whatever your reason, check out Boppin' Bob's!"**

**"Apparently, Jim thought that my little Dwight could possibly be there," Dwight tells us. "If he thinks it might be there, then what are the chances that it **_**is **_**there? The chances are good, let me tell you." He pauses. "Plus, I'm only missing Mr. Spock. Once I have him, my Star Trek collection will be complete."**

"**Why am I not surprised that Dwight has a Star Trek bobblehead collection?" Jim muses.**

Dwight casts Jim a look that seems as though thanks, disgust, and awkwardness were all shoved together into a blender and then smeared over his face. It's kind of hard to describe, as you've probably decided. Dwight shoves his swivel chair backward and knocks on Michael's office door.

"Michael?" he asks repeatedly. "Michael, can you open the door? I have a lead!"

**The camera zooms in on Michael sitting slumped in his chair, his head resting on his hands. He notices that he has company, and then sighs. **

**"I," he begins, "I, am sick of this bobblehead. Whoever got it for him should just go buy him another one, huh? Doesn't that sound like a good plan?"**

"It's ten minutes to five, Dwight," Michael calls out. "Can't we just keep looking tomorrow?"

Michael gets up, stretches, and saunters a little unwillingly toward the door. Suddenly, Dwight's face appears from between the blinds on the oversized windows around his office that Michael doesn't see a point for.

"Oh, my God! Dwight!" Michael yelps, stumbling backwards, even though Dwight appearing between his blinds wasn't as scary as it was odd. Clutching his heart dramatically, he hesitantly opens the door.

"Michael, I request getting out of work ten minutes early to go here," Dwight tells him, handing Michael the business card. He takes it and his eyes skim the small print. He tries as hard as he can to hide a smirk, and Dwight waits patiently, like a dog watching his owner hold a stick tauntingly above him.

"Fine, Dwight," Michael says, handing Dwight back the card to Boppin' Bob's. "But to make up for it, you hafta be here ten minutes early tomorrow."

Dwight nods absentmindedly, runs out of Michael's office, grabs his jacket, and runs out of the office door.

**Michael stares at the camera, trying desperately to contain a laugh. "B-Boppin' Bob's!" he gasps, slapping his knees. "Who in their right mind names themselves Boppin' Bob! That'd be like if I called myself Moppin' Michael!" He pauses as he remembers the Halloween party a few years ago, when he came dressed as a janitor, complete with cleaning supplies, and did indeed call himself "Moppin' Michael."**

**"That was just a one-time thing," Michael insists. "I mean, this guy actually goes by the name 'Boppin' Bob!' It's just…weird."**


	6. Chapter 6

disclaimage: I don't own anything associated with Dunder Mifflin Paper Products. But, at the Hard Rock Cafe yesterday, I saw a kid with a Dunder Mifflin shirt, and that made me happy. I wish I owned that shirt, since I can't own _The Office_.

**mg: **thanks for the review! Dwight and Stanley are amazing ) glad you liked it

**weareborgg: **thanks for the review, too! Sorry it took me like, an eternity to update it! but i'm glad you liked it anyway )

* * *

Dwight scampers frantically into the parking lot, almost tripping himself up over a small rock that he was certain Jim placed there. He finally makes it to his car, and jerks the door handle open, only to discover that it was locked, and that he left his keys up in the office, in his desk drawer.

"Damn it," he gasps, his hands on his knees. He doesn't want to do this, but he doesn't want to run up five flights of stairs again, either. He flips open his cell phone, punches in a bunch of numbers, and listens impatiently to the dial tone.

"**There was no choice here," Dwight insists. "I had to keep my energy up, and I wasn't gonna waste it running back up to get my stupid car keys!" A pause. "Unless, of course, I had some Glacier Freeze Gatorade. That would be a different story, but there's no Gatorade to be found." **

Michael's sitting in his office, making a pros and cons list about calling himself "Moppin' Michael" that Halloween on that little whiteboard he always has that's propped up on a three-legged stand, when he suddenly is blasted by Kelly Clarkson singing "Walk Away." His cheeks reddening, he snatches the phone and quickly flips it open.

"**Some guy at the phone store programmed it," Michael tells us, holding the phone up a few feet away from him, like it has a disease. "I haven't been able to figure out how to change it yet. So sue me!"**

"Hello?"

"Michael, Michael!"

"Dwight? I thought you went to…" A small snicker escapes Michael as he turns to the camera and makes a pathetic attempt at a wink. "…I thought you went to Boppin' Bob's."

"I forgot my keys in my drawer. You're the only one who has the key to unlock it; can you get them and bring them down here? I swear on my life that I'll never ask you for anything else requiring large amounts of manual labor for the rest of my time at Dunder Mifflin," Dwight pleads.

"Oh, God, Dwight," Michael says dramatically. "I've got _so _much work to do here, and I just don't know if I'll have enough time…"

"Please, Michael!" Dwight yelps. "Please! I need to get Little Dwight back! I, I, I'll sharpen all your pencils for a year!"

"You'll sharpen my pencils?"

"Yes!"

"What if I'm using a pen?"

"Then I'll buy you more for when the ink runs out! Please, Michael! We could be running out of time!"

"Fine," Michael tells him, shoving his roller chair away from his desk and standing up. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Thank you, Michael! Thank you!"

"**Sometimes," Michael reasons, "you've just got to do a good thing for your fellow man. It's just like that saying. The one, uh, you know, the one where you do somethin' good for someone else, and then you get a reward, y'know? Well, my reward was free pens/free pencil sharpener. Let that be a lesson to you kids out there."**

Michael walks out into the office, and nobody really looks up at him except for Jim, only because his desk is right next to Dwight's. Michael peeks around suspiciously, then reaches his hand under Dwight's desk calendar. Jim notices, but doesn't say anything. He just watches from behind his computer monitor, glancing back at Pam every so often and coughing or snapping his fingers slightly, trying to get her attention. Pam sniffs a little, which was supposed to let Jim know that she was looking. It took him a few sniffs, but he finally understood her funky little message thing.

"Isn't that Dwight's desk, Michael?" Jim asks.

Michael straightens, slipping the key into his pocket. "It is, Jim," he answers. "But, Dwight has run into a tiny bit of trauma." He motions with his hands. "A teeny, tiny, itty, bitty, bit of trauma, and he has called upon Michael Scott to bail him out!"

There's a very soft thud on the carpeted floor, and Jim glances down to see Dwight's key. Michael missed his pocket.

"Okay, then," Jim decides. "Good luck with that."

"Thank you, soldier!" Michael yelps, saluting Jim and then strutting out of the office like a general, or an attorney general. Whichever one you like better.

"**He did **_**what**_**?" Jim asks in disbelief as he watches the cameraman imitate Michael's attempt at a wink. Jim imitates the cameraman's imitation, and his right eye twitches a little, as if he had just been stung by a bee. In the process, his left eye gets wide. **

**"A Michael Scott wink," Jim chuckles. With that, he pulls Dwight's key out of his pocket. "Boppin' Bob's is at least forty-five miles from here, according to the business card. It'll be pretty hard to walk there, if I do say so myself."**

Michael emerges from the entrance to Dunder Mifflin Paper Products, Inc., and Dwight runs up to him, immediately serenading him with praise and thanks, as if he were some god who came back from the dead. Maybe, to Dwight, that's exactly what Michael was. Don't know for sure, though. Wouldn't that be creepy if it was? Shudder.

"Thank you so much, Michael!" Dwight swoons, handing Michael a pack of Bic pens that he found inside Meredith's van.

"**She left her doors unlocked; it was her own fault," Dwight explains.**

"You're welcome, Dwight," Michael says in that hearty little tone he puts on sometimes, you know the one I'm trying to talk about?, and casts a grinning glance at the camera. "I'll just…oh."

Dwight's face falls.

Michael begins to pat himself down, muttering, "I could've sworn I…I definitely had it…"

"Was it there? In the desk?" Dwight pauses. "It must've been Jim! I knew I couldn't trust Halpert! He stole it!"

"Dwight! Stop! Jim didn't steal your stupid key. I must've just dropped it in the office or something," Michael reasons.

"Boppin' Bob's is gonna close in a half hour, Michael," Dwight whines nervously. "We'll never be able to make it there in time if we don't drive."

Simultaneously, both of their eyes go to Michael's car. Their eyes connect, and Dwight's turn into little puppy dog's.

"Dwight, come on," Michael says, catching on immediately to Dwight's ideas.

"Please, Michael!" Before he can do anything, Dwight's down on his knees, staring up at Michael pleadingly. "I need to get Little Dwight back. I promise I'll never ask you for anything again!"

Michael pauses. "Fine," he mutters. "Just don't, like, mess anything up. Or anything." Dwight jumps up, hugs Michael quickly, and then jumps back, suddenly aware of his huggage.

"I…um," Dwight stammers.

"Yeah…" Michael breathes.

"That didn't happen," they agree together.

"**Why do I want Little Dwight back so badly?" Dwight repeats the question. "He's like a son. My Dwight, Junior. And if you have a Dwight, Junior, or a Michael, Junior, or any type of Junior, then you know what I mean."**

**Just before the camera stops rolling, Dwight casts a sideways glance at Angela.**


	7. Chapter 7

**emunotemo:** thanks for the review! glad you liked it )

i feel bad that i haven't updated this story in like, an eternity ( and i apologize right now, and i hope since this one's kinda long, it'll make up for it? possibly? hopefully?

* * *

Michael pulls out of the parking lot with Dwight in the shotgun seat, staring nervously out the window. It creeps Michael out a little bit to see Dwight so…un Dwight-ish.

"**It's like he's in love with the thing," Michael explains to us, shrugging a little. "I mean, hey, I'm all up for the whole 'love whoever you want' thing, but I think Dwight's gotten a little to excessive. But I dunno, I mean, whatever. Just don't sue me, okay? Okay."**

Jim walks casually up to Pam's desk and plops the key down behind her "receptionist" nameplate thing. She looks up at him, and he taps the palms of his hands nonchalantly on her desk, making a nice little rhythm that he has quite the knack for creating.

Pam likes it. She won't tell him that he's a beatmaster genius, but she thinks so. She believes the Jim would kick Roy's ass in a beatmaster tournament, if there ever was such a thing.

"**What?" Pam asks the camera. "There could be a competition for it! What channel? Well, it could be on that G4 channel, or whatever it's called, with all the **_**Ninja Warrior **_**people running around!"**

"I'm kinda thirsty," he says, "and I forgot my wallet in my car." He pauses and glances at Stanley, who has just gotten up to go make some copies. Jim waits until Stanley is back at his desk before continuing.

"Being the lazy guy that I am, I was wondering if you'd be willing to make a contribution to the Help-Quench-Jim-Halpert's-Thirst Fund?"

"I…'d love to," Pam answers, getting up slowly and shoving her wheely chair back. "How much do you need?" she asks as the two walk towards the break room together.

"**That's twenty-two times Jim's gone to Pam's desk this week," Angela informs us, checking off another box on her Pam-Pong scoreboard that she keeps hidden in her desk drawer, with pictures of her cats and overly mature babies that Oscar and Kevin refuse to let her pin up.**

Pam closes the door softly behind her, and even though she takes a pretty good amount of care to close it, it still makes that weird rickety noise that some old doors would make in an outdated school. Y'know what I mean?

"Boppin' Bob's?" Pam asks, exasperatedly falling into a chair.

"I need my drink money, Beesley," Jim insists, holding his hand out, grinning. "Gotta make sure nobody suspects anything."

"I don't have enough for a soda," Pam tells him, reaching into her pockets and pulling out two quarters.

"That's fine," Jim answers, grabbing the coins and shoving them quickly into the machine. He pauses, and the machine waits for him to insert another quarter. Jim turns to Pam and shrugs, smacking his forehead incessantly, amazed at his stupidity for not bringing enough change.

"Jim, c'mon, stop!" Pam tells him, covering her mouth with her hand. "I really don't think anyone's suspicious."

"**Pam watches **_**Ninja Warrior**_**?" Jim asks, awestruck. He chuckles a little. "Wow. I mean, wow. **_**I **_**don't even watch that."**

"How did you come up with Boppin' Bob's?" Pam wants to know.

"I found it on Creed's desk," Jim answers simply, shrugging.

"No you didn't!" Pam yelps, shoving him as he takes a seat across from her. "You're such a liar!"

Jim grins. "Seriously, though, it's a real place."

"Dwight, um, so, where are those Terminator sunglasses you had earlier?" Michael asks, turning to the camera and grinning a little. "Those mad cool lenses? Those stunnah shades?"

"Gone," Dwight answers stiffly. "My brother took them." He pauses melodramatically. "And he never gave them back."

"Oh. Well, okay, then. You should get 'em back, Mr. Schrute. Maybe they'll make you feel better. Make you feel ill, y'know what I'm sayin'…" Michael pauses, trying to come up with the right word, "…home-piece?"

"**The correct term is 'homeslice'," Dwight says to the camera sternly, his face still drained of color. "Of course, if Michael wants to call me 'home-piece,' then I'll gladly go by that name, because Michael Scott can call you whatever he wants. However, if any of you go out and say to someone, 'What's poppin', my home-piece?' I would feel bad that I didn't warn you. So don't blame me if you get beat up. I warned you fully."**

"**I know how to talk to the kids," Michael proudly informs us. "I'm a real smooth-talker, y'know. You don't really have the chance to see it in the office, but in the outside world, I'm just a beast! **

"**Kids tell me stuff they don't even tell their parents. Y'know why? Because I understand them, that's why. And they understand me. So it all works out in the end."**

Michael and Dwight finally pull up into the parking lot of Boppin' Bob's, and they see Boppin' Bob himself just getting ready to close up shop. Dwight gasps and shoots out of the car as if he was a little firework going off.

"Mr. Bob!" he yells, running frantically across the parking lot, waving his arms over his head. "Wait one second! Wait!"

"Sorry, dude, we're closed," Bob tells Dwight solemnly.

Bob doesn't look anything like Dwight or Michael expected. He's actually around seventeen, with that bushy brown hair that a lot of guys lean towards these days. He doesn't look like a Boppin' Bob at all, and yet he reacts to the name. Weird.

"_**I **_**thought it was really weird," Michael pitches in.**

"Can you just let us go in for a few seconds? We know exactly what we're lookin' for, home-piece," Michael pleads, spitting out some mad slang at Bob.

"Home-piece?" the kid repeats, obviously confused. He glances at the camera a little awkwardly.

Dwight moves his frame into the camera shot, blocking Bob's view of it. "Do you have a bobblehead that looks like me? Like a mini me?"

"Like in _Austin Powers_?" Bob asks hesitantly.

"No. As in, he looks just like me, only smaller, in bobblehead form," Dwight rephrases slowly, as if he's talking to a five-year-old.

Bob stands there for a few seconds, thinking it over, glancing at Dwight every so often.

"Actually…" he begins, "we did have one that looked a lot like you, now that you mention it."

"Well, boy, we'd like to buy it off of you right here, right now," Dwight informs him.

"Ahhh," Bob sighs, waving his hand absentmindedly in the air. "Well, a guy just came in at around twelve this afternoon and bought it off us for fifteen bucks."

"A guy bought Dwight for fifteen bucks?" Michael repeats, a little stunned.

"**Personally," Michael scoffs, "I'd only pay around seven-fifty for Dwight, and that's pushing the envelope."**

Bob nods, trying to act solemnly.

"What'd this guy look like?" Dwight demands.

The kid pauses again, thinking over the way the earlier buyer looked. "He was kinda tall," he starts, his eyes staring up at the sky. "He had one of those shoulder bags, um, a messenger bag. And he had that type of brown hair, like the kind I have, y'know?...but maybe it was a little bit longer.

"He bought it fast," Bob continues, "'cause he said he had to get back. He was on his lunch break, I guess."

"Halpert!" Dwight yelped angrily. "Damn it!" With that, he lunged towards Michael's passenger car door. "Michael!" he shouts. "Can you hurry, please? We need to get back before Jim leaves!"

"It's five ten, Dwight," Michael tells him. "Jim's long gone." He glances at the camera and smirks. "Unless of course, he's a nerdy suck-up who wants to stay extra hours to try and…well…suck up."

"Jim's too lazy for that," Dwight says sadly. His lips pursed, he declares, "First thing tomorrow morning, Halpert is going down!"

"**My name is Isaac," the kid tells the camera. "Not Bob."**


	8. Chapter 8

**young for eternity**: thanks! glad you liked it, i hope you like this chapter, too!

ending alert...

* * *

Dwight goes home and feels a weird emptiness that he's never felt before. Little Dwight has never gone home with him, and Dwight's brother is home, too, watching Larry the Cable Guy's latest Comedy Central sketch. 

"**If you tell anyone about this," Dwight warns, making and keeping eye contact with the camera, "rest assured that I will hunt you down and jab you with my homemade bowspear. It's up on the wall in the den if you don't believe me. But I suggest you do."**

He's struck with this insane amount of chronic insomnia that only lasts for that night. No matter what he does, Dwight can't sleep. It pisses him off, and apparently, his brother isn't too happy about it, either.

"**He keeps flickin' the damn light on and off!" Schrute the Second rants. "It gets really annoyin' for us folks who are trying to get a good night's sleep. I think Dwight should just leave his work issues…well, at work." He stares hard at the camera. "Doesn't that make sense?"**

Meanwhile, in Jim's house, a newly purchased Dwight bobblehead is adorning his and his roommate's coffee table, still bearing its lovely Boppin' Bob's price tag.

His roommate, Mark, sighs and turns down the volume on the TV, silencing Jeremy Piven's Ari on _Entourage_. "Jim," he begins, "I don't mean to sound so…off…but what the hell is that thing doing here?" He points at the bobblehead, then adds, "It's creepin' me out."

"'S a prank for a guy at work," Jim answers. "You just made us miss the best part, you know?"

"You've never seen this episode. How d'you know it's the best part?"

"Gut feeling."

"Sure. So, how's this prank of yours gonna work, man?"

Jim shrugs. "Don't want to give away any surprises. Maybe you'll see it on the news."

"And if I don't?"

"Then, I guess I'll tell you about it."

The next day at the office, Dwight pulls into the parking lot at promptly seven fourteen. His old red car still slightly reeks of vomit—from when he attempted to save Michael from his plight with his George Foreman grill—when the sun blares down on it for too long of a time, so he parks in the shade.

"**After a few days with this smell, you learn where to park your car," Dwight tells us. "It becomes common sense, really."**

Dwight jumps out of the car and enters Dunder Mifflin, the first employee in, as usual. As he walks down the dimly lit hallways, the janitor, Russ, nods casually at him.

"Russ," Dwight acknowledges. Earlier in the year, Russ had bestowed upon Dwight a key to the office, after an insane amount of pestering.

"**That guy's a **_**nut**_**!" Russ insists. He shakes his head solemnly. "Didn't even know they could hire nuts here…"**

Dwight goes into the office, flicks on the lights, and grabs the watering can he keeps hidden behind the copy machine in the corner. He quickly waters the office plants then ventures into Michael's office. He carefully begins organizing the little knick-knacks and collectibles lining Michael's desk, and after about fifteen minutes, is satisfied with his work.

There's nothing else to do for another hour and a half, so he sits down at his desk, opens his computer programs, and starts up a pretty intense game of Internet checkers with some dude from Taiwan.

"**You have no business in knowing who won," Dwight tells the camera simply.**

At around nine-thirty, Jim saunters into the office, tapping his palms lightly on Pam's reception desk the way she likes but would never tell him about, and he collapses into his chair.

Dwight's head swivels towards Jim from behind his computer screen. His eyes narrow, and he attempts to make conversation with his younger co-employee.

"Halpert," he starts.

Jim looks up from under his messy brown hair. "Yeah, Dwight," he says.

"I know you have my bobblehead, Halpert."

Jim rolls back in his chair a little, pretending to be shocked. He puts his hands up and glances around, feigning nervousness. "Hey, man, what're you talking about?"

"I know you have my bobblehead," Dwight repeats, trying desperately to keep his calm. "Boppin' Bob himself told me that he sold it to you for fifteen bucks."

"**I don't know a Boppin' Bob," Jim confides in the audience. "The kid I talked to, his name was Isaac, so I have no idea where Dwight's coming from. Well, a slight idea, but not really. Yeah."**

"I don't have it, Dwight," Jim tells him.

"Pssh," Dwight pssh's. "You expect me to believe you?"

"Um, yeah."

"Let me search your desk."

Jim pauses, staring at him. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I obviously didn't. That's why I said 'What?'"

"I want to search your desk. I know that Little Dwight is in there somewhere. You could be suffocating him with your soda cans and highlighter fumes!"

Jim flashes one of his trademark Jim looks at the camera, and he hesitantly allows Dwight to enter his desk domain.

"**Yeah, 'cause my desk is a haven for those pesky highlighter fumes, y'know," Jim mutters sarcastically.**

"**I like the smell of highlighters," Kevin informs the camera, grinning mischieviously. He pops an M&M into his mouth.**

Michael enters the office just in time to see Dwight rifling through Jim's drawers and papers.

"Whoa, what's going on here, dudes?" he wants to know. Nobody answers him. Slightly hurt, he goes up to Stanley and smacks his hand on his shoulder.

"Stanley! Buddy! Any idea what's going on here?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay. Well, thanks for the help."

Hearing the sound of Michael's voice for the first time, Dwight's ears perk up like a dog's. He yanks his head out from inside Jim's desk drawer.

"Michael!" he yelps breathlessly.

"Hey hey, Dwight. What're you doing?"

"Jim stole my bobblehead and I know it's in here!" Dwight informs his boss.

Michael looks at Jim, whose eyes avert to the carpeted floor.

"Well, well, well, it looks like we've got a little thief here!" Michael says, grinning. "Jim, you've been accused! How do you plead?"

Jim looks up, his eyebrows scrunched together, a little confused. "What?"

"Guilty!" Dwight yells, pointing a condemning finger at Jim.

"Guilty it is, then!" Michael decides. With that, he runs up behind Jim and jerks his arms behind his back, grinning a tad.

This huge audible wave gasp encompasses the whole office as Michael shoves Jim forward into Dwight's former workspace, from when he was in charge of health insurance.

"Michael, what're you doing?" Jim asks, his shoes skidding on the floor in a failed attempt to stop his body moving forward.

"Jail!" Michael answers giddily. "Innocent until proven guilty, Jim!"

"…You haven't proven me guilty yet," Jim points out.

There's an awkward silence as both Michael and Jim stop moving. Finally, Michael decides that Jim's words make no sense, shoves him into Dwight's workspace, and locks the door. Pam starts toward the door, but Michael sees her out of the corner of his eye.

"Anyone who opens the door before we find this bobblehead is fired," he informs everyone cheerfully. Pam stops, and holds up a finger for Jim to see. _Wait a second._

"**Y'know, I don't even know," Jim tells the camera, his chin in his hands. "It's just…I don't know. Now I'm gonna have this crime on my permanent office record, and that, actually, really sucks."**

"Michael, I, uh, I think you could be held legally responsible for confining Jim in…well…a random place with no reason whatsoever," Toby stammers. "If Jim wanted to, he could sue you, or the company, and I don't think Jan would be very happy with that…"

"Shaddup, Toby," Michael interrupts. He turns to the camera and chuckles a little. "Ha, can you believe this guy? I can't, I'll tell you that much."

"**Do I think Jim deserved being locked in the conference room." Michael repeats the question asked to him, pondering the answer before he actually answers, which is probably the most awkward-sounding sentence you've ever heard in your life. "Yes," Michael answers, "I do. I mean, hell, if I didn't, what would Jim be doing in there? It's simple math, sir. Simple, **_**Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? **_**math. So yeah."**

Jim's desk is continuing being searched by Dwight, who is getting more and more frustrated with each upturned paper or folder that doesn't bear his bobblehead hiding underneath.

"**It's not in my desk," Jim tells the camera, shrugging. "What?" He pauses. "No, it's not in my bag, either. It's not that bad in here; there's food left over from Oscar's welcome-back Mexico-ish party." He reaches down and pulls up a bottle of lemoñade into the camera's pan. "Not even opened," he marvels. "Can you believe it?"**

"**It's either let Jim stay locked in there or lose my job," Pam explains. "If I lose my job, then I won't be able to bail Jim out of anymore situations, and I'm sure he wouldn't want that."**

"**Beesley thinks I need her to save me?" Jim scoffs sarcastically. "Pssh. Don't flatter yourself," he adds as a message directly to Pam.**

**Pam smiles and averts her eyes to the carpet.**

Because everyone is standing around Jim's desk, and Dwight is having random convulsive spazzes, everyone misses a brief message left by Darryl on the reception answering machine:

_Hey guys, or Mike, or whoever is supposed to be here. Um, yeah, uh, just wanted to let you know that we've got this weird-lookin' bobblehead hangin' out down here, and he kinda looks like that dude with the glasses who works up there. What's his name…Dwayne? Hell, I dunno. But if you guys want it, you've got five minutes before it goes out with our next shipment. It was in a box, so we dunno, it might have to get shipped out. So, let us know. Right, see ya. Bye._

The camera pans toward Jim again, who notices, waves, then focuses his attention back on the escapades taking over his desk.

A few minutes later, Pam notices the blinking red light going off on her phone that means a message is waiting for you, you lucky duck.

"**I mean, there was this whole scene going on!" Pam insists, as to why she didn't go check out the message. "I couldn't just go and answer it! I might've missed something."**

"**Did I tell Pam to ignore any messages from Darryl," Jim muses. He glances up at the camera and grins a little. "I don't **_**have **_**to tell you, do I?"**

After a few more minutes, the little red light starts to blink again:

_Okay, so apparently this thing wasn't anybody's up there. Don't say we didn't warn ya, Mike. Well, see you guys at our next basketball game…thing._

((one week later))

"Dwight! Why is this phone bill up so much from last month?" Schrute the Second asks.

"It was $0.00 last month," Dwight mutters. "It was bound to go up sometime."

Sensing that his brother was acting, well, rather psychotic, Schrute the Second left to attend those beet fields that the family is so famous for once again.

"**I had to call some paper company in Australia," Dwight informs us. "Some joint Dunder Mifflin company. No matter how much I said it was an emergency, they still charged me massive amounts of money for a very long-distance call."**

"I didn't see your prank on the news," Mark tells Jim bluntly.

"You didn't? 'Cause I swear I saw Fox and ABC there, at least. I might've caught a glimpse of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, but I can't be too sure," Jim answers.

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

"Later. Wait until all the press goes down."

"There's no press, Jim!"

"Oh, trust me, there will be. It was just so shocking that they need to figure out how to edit it down enough for national television broadcasting," Jim explains simply.

"**No, I don't think Mark's ever gonna know what happened," Jim tells us, smirking a little. **

"**I get Little Dwight back in approximately ten to twelve business days," Dwight says, reading off of a piece of paper. "But don't be surprised if I don't see it for two weeks." His eyes scan the words again. "Two weeks?" he yelps.**

"**Two weeks," Jim repeats, grinning. He pauses. "No, I didn't tell them to hold it for two weeks," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "They definitely decided to do that on their own. They're a busy company, y'know."**

**Dwight stares at the camera dead-on and points his finger threateningly. "I can have you arrested, Halpert! Arrested for kidnapping! I've got connections, Halpert, so you better watch out."**

**"I have to watch out?" Jim asks. "Well, then. I guess I will. If Dwight comes, I'll just fend him off with my massive undergroud supply of soda cans and highlighters. Works like a charm."**

**"Damn you, Halpert."**

* * *

so yeah, that concludes the festivities. i hope you guys liked it, and i'm sorry again for the extreme lack of updates! 


End file.
